


Melody

by ParadoxRose



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Chaptered, Excessive use of 'he' pronouns in POV, Gen, Headcannoned name for Meister, Songfic, Weird POV, canon-typical stuff, occasionally a songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10299062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadoxRose/pseuds/ParadoxRose
Summary: Michel Forte is a singer & composer living in Gotham.





	1. Audition

The spotlight shone on him, and him alone. The stage set, curtains drawn back. All eyes were on him, waiting on the edge of their seats for the magic to flood through his chest and out into the air.

Well that’s how he saw it anyway.

In truth, there was only _one_ in his audience (two, if you counted her right-hand). But this was only the audition.

The music began to play, and he took a deep breath before smirking and grabbing the microphone. His sudden change from calm to exuberant must have surprised her, because her somewhat bored expression froze considerably.

“ _Well looky here, looky here, oh what do we have? Another pretty thing ready for me to grab-“_

He was already tapping his foot as he sang, the quick-tempo song taking hold of him.

“- _But little does she know I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing, ‘cause at the end of the night it is_ her _I’ll be holdin’-_ “

She watched him intently, her mask of indifference pierced by her eyes that scanned his every movement, ready to catalogue any flaw or mistake.

“ _-‘I love you so’, that’s what you’ll say. You’ll tell me ‘Baby baby please don’t go away’. But when I play, I never stay. So every girl that I meet, yeah, this is what I’ll say-_ “

She wouldn’t find any.

“- _Run run run away, run away baby before I put my spell on you-ou! You better get get get away, get away darlin’, ‘cause everythin’ you heard is true-ue!-_ “

He was almost dancing now, every movement bubbling with energy that he could only release through the music filling the air.

“- _Your poor little heart, will end up alone, ‘cause lord knows I’m a rollin’ stone. So you better run run runaway, runaway baby!-_ “

_His_ music.

He had barely gotten through another verse when she suddenly stopped him, the command ringing sharply like an axe striking down through his song.

“Enough.”

He had blinked, both in surprise and possibly even irritation, but he kept his smile as he returned the microphone to its stand. After all of his performances, after countless other auditions, he still felt anxious as he waited for her opinion. She thought, long nails drumming slowly against the wood table, and after several agonising minutes, she finally spoke.

“Alright, I think there just may be a spot for you.” The corner of her mouth turned upwards slightly in a smile, and relief only added to his satisfaction.

“Thank you, Miss Mooney.” He grinned, showing the gap between his two front teeth.

_So you better run run runaway, runaway baby!_


	2. Frere Jacque

The stage was set. He adjusted his collar and straightened his suit (a boring, dull dark grey thing) before walking through the doors of the bank. Everyone went about their daily business, completely oblivious to not only others around them, but to the show they were all about to unwittingly be a part of. He cleared his throat shortly before walking with casual but characteristically confident strides, hands behind his back. He began to hum his tune as he reached the first security guard.

_Gotham City, Gotham City._

_Don’t mind me, don’t mind me._

_Fill the bags with money,_

_Then pass them all to me,_

_Then let me leave, let me leave._

Frère Jacque, if he wasn’t mistaken. He continued the tune as he circled the bank once, twice. His innocent smirk became not-so-innocent as he noticed each person’s expression fade to blank, their eyes glazing over and their jaws slackening. It was working.

_Fill the bags with money,_

_Then pass them all to me…_

In no time at all he had three quite full bags lying at his feet, filled with bills to the point they might break. He picked up one, then turned to the young woman behind the desk.

“ _Security systems, if you please._ ” He didn’t even have to flash his bedazzling smile, but he did anyway as she turned off all the security systems, _including_ the cameras outside. Now he could take his ‘earned’ goods to his car outside (with help from his new friends, of course). The thing was awfully common, but dark purple to the point that if you stood far enough away, you’d think it was black. Maybe he’d buy a Ferrari later. He laughed at the thought as he drove away, slipping seamlessly and inconspicuously into traffic. A quick glance in the rear-view-mirror showed that as soon as he was out of range, the people broke out of their trances, wondering in dazed confusion how they ended up on the side of the road.


	3. A Performance Of Innocence

Miss Mooney (apparently only her ‘friends’ could call her Fish) had managed to fill the club for his opening night. Of course the chatter and other noises of the club meant that his soft, slow performance fell to the background. But then, where would the atmosphere be without his music? There would be none. But from the stage he had an almost perfect view of the whole club, and it wasn’t hard to miss the two newcomers as they entered (and bickered).

“Just let someone else handle it!”

“Work’s been slow Harvey. I don’t know about you-“

“I don’t care! Count it as a miracle Jim.”

He snuffed out the momentary panic that rose in his chest before it could affect his note. They weren’t policemen, and they hadn’t come for _him_. They couldn’t be. He noticed Mooney rise from her table as she too spotted the two men, and he eyed all three with suspicion as Mooney crossed the club and talked to the two men by the bar. As his song drew to a close, a few patrons applauded respectively and he gave a somewhat forced smile as he stepped back from the microphone. He couldn’t take his eyes off Fish and whoever she was talking to.

“I need a drink.” He declared, more to himself than the instrumentalists. Without another word he walked quickly offstage and to the bar, ordering a simple glass of water.

“…Well I don’t know who could possibly have done such a thing…”

They weren’t after him. They weren’t after him.

The glass was set in front of him with a quiet thud, and he nodded to the bartender before raising the glass to his lips.

“Come on Fish. Bank robbery in the middle of the day and no one even trips the silent alarm?”

He choked on his drink and he spluttered, setting the glass back down heavily.

“Hey, you alright?”

He whirled around expecting handcuffs to be slapped on his wrists, but all he saw was one of the two men looking at him with concern behind the flatness of his expression. He had to be a cop. Even in Gotham, only policemen wore that expression.

“I-I’m fine.” He replied, flashing a smile he hoped didn’t show his nerves. This policeman wore a simple suit, clearly not concerned with style or aesthetic quality. The other man, his partner perhaps, wore a large coat and a fedora. Clearly he preferred keeping to himself, or keeping secrets at least.

“I’m fine.” He repeated, trying to deter the attention that had now been cast to him.

“Ah Fish, you wanna introduce us?” Fedora asked, pointing at him while looking at Mooney. Without missing a beat Fish gave that smile of hers.

“Harvey, Jim, this is Michel Forte. He’s my newest singer.”

Good lord that smile was fake. He could see right through it, it was as much a performance as that he had given thirty seconds ago. He shook hands with ‘Harvey’, then with ‘Jim’.

“Michel, these are Detectives James Gordon and Harvey Bullock.” Fish gestured to the two men before her fake smile became less fake and more devious, “You haven’t been bad, have you?”

Lying was not one of his best skills. He was good at it, yes, but not when he was standing directly in front of two detectives. Calm, Forte, stay calm…

“Breaking a few hearts, Miss Mooney, but other than that…” He laughed at the joke along with Fish and Harvey, but Jim didn’t seem to think it was so funny.

“How long have you been working here, Mr Forte?” Jim questioned, and he inwardly hesitated. Remain calm, Michel. This was just another performance, a performance of innocence.

With that thought in mind, his nerves eased just a fraction.

“Please Detective, call me Michel.” He smiled, a genuine, bedazzling smile. He could always do his best in a performance.

“How long?” Jim repeated, and he noticed the drop in his tone from baritone to bass. Jeez.

“You seem strung tighter than a violin, Detective.” He smirked, then leant back against the bar, “Three days.” Apparently, Jim didn’t find _that_ funny either, but Harvey distinctly pointed at him and let out a single, smug, ‘Ha!’.

“Michel here is one of the best male singers I’ve ever had.” Fish piped in, most likely hoping for the spotlight again, “You should see how he hits the high notes.” He couldn’t help but chuckle.

If only you knew, Mooney, if only you knew…

“Do you know anything about a robbery about five or so blocks from here?” Harvey asked, and his smirk widened. What was he worried about? James wasn’t putting him under pressure, and Bullock _clearly_ wasn’t taking this seriously.

“I’m sorry but, no, I don’t.” He replied, then gave an ‘apologetic’ smile as he stood up from the bar again, “Sorry.” Jim looked disappointed. Or maybe just exasperated?

“Don’t worry about it.” Jim said flatly, then stepped towards the exit.

“Fish, a pleasure as always.” Harvey tipped his hat before following Jim, and just as they were at the door and he was about to let out a sigh of relief, Harvey turned back around and pointed to him.

“Hey good luck with the high notes, Beethoven.” And the two were gone. After the relief had worn off, he grinned.

If only they knew…


	4. Sextet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the metaphorical timeline of this story, this happens before the other chapters. In other words, this happened first.

_CLICK._

_BZZZZ._

He winced against the momentary tingle of electricity and cleared his throat, hoping it would remove the feeling faster than the usual two seconds. When it passed, he smiled and ran a hand through his copper hair. Oddly, he felt something that could only be described as butterflies in his stomach, a feeling he rarely experienced.

But this was no audition.

This was the _final_ test, the _live_ show.

He took a deep breath before smiling and turning around, addressing the group of men and women in front of him.

“Thank you all for volunteering!” His voice boomed in the small, dimly lit room, “As you all know, I am Michel Forte.” They regarded him with dull interest, those eager to participate in what he had stated now tired of waiting.

Three men, three women.

A sextet.

“The money, of course, will be delivered in the mail.” He continued, before a devilish smirk twisted his lips, “But first…”

He could hear the opening bars of the song begin in his mind as he lifted his hands. A single note, and they all became as stiff as statues, their eyes glazed over. He continued to hum the song as he waved and moved his hands in time, conducting the sextet as they sang.

First the females.

Then the males.

Then all together.

His foot tapped in time with the music, and the next thing he knew the sextet was suddenly dancing. He looked down at his foot in surprise before grinning, and he tapped his foot more decisively as he returned his attention to the singers (and now dancers as well).

He hadn’t known he could do that…

The tap-dancing formed the bridge of the tune, and he was almost dancing himself by the time he made them stop and launch into the final chorus. He continued to conduct them, to direct them to what he wanted. He felt like a great maestro conducting not a sextet, but an entire choir _and_ a vast orchestra, standing in front of a crowd of thousands.

When the song ended he reluctantly let them out of their trance, slowly coming back to Earth from his own thrill. He watched with curiosity as they remained still for a few more minutes, and then blinked repeatedly before finally regaining their senses, looking around with confusion.

The fantasy dissipated, the orchestra returning to the melody in his mind, the chorus returning to the sextet, the concert hall returning to the dreary and drab room.

He frowned, but then smiled.

But the audience would never leave. Soon, _everyone_ would be his audience…


	5. The Flyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now return to current events...

Jim and Harvey were both seated, considering who could have been breaking into banks and leaving with thousands of dollars at a time, but with no trace whatsoever.

“What about ninjas?” Harvey thought out loud.

“Ninjas?” Jim questioned flatly, the scepticism evident in his expression.

“Think about it.” Harvey leant forward in his seat, “They sneak in, steal the money, and then poof! They vanish.” Harvey used a gesture to add emphasis to his words, but Jim frowned.

“Yeah, sure Harvey.” Jim turned around in his chair, and confusion added to his frown as he saw Edward drift past, looking at some sort of flyer in his hands.

“Ed?”

Edward looked up sharply, attention torn away from the large piece of paper.

“Yes detective?” Edward questioned, and Jim gestured to the flyer in his hands.

“What’s that?”

Almost instantly Edward grinned excitedly, moving quickly towards the two detectives with almost a skip in his step.

“I found it outside.” Edward explained, holding up the flyer for them to see, “I took it down because I thought of how amazing it would be to actually-“

“Just pass it over Ed.” Harvey cut him off, and Nygma’s face fell as he stopped talking. He handed the flyer to Jim, who frowned as he looked it over.

_Want to contribute to science?_

_Help to create something revolutionary?_

_Then contact Michel Forte to learn how you can take part in this exciting opportunity!_

_Those willing to take part in the trials will be paid for their efforts, so don’t delay!_

_(Phone number and email on bottom of flyer)_

Harvey’s expression was equally confused after he had read the flyer as well.

“Isn’t that the musician we saw at Fish Mooney’s?” Jim asked, and Harvey nodded slowly.

“Yeah, Fish’s new singer.” Harvey agreed thoughtfully, then pointed at the flyer, “Guess he has some interesting hobbies…”

“Or he knows more than he told us.” Jim replied, rising quickly from his seat and walking towards the stairs.


	6. Morning Routines And Hymns

Rather than the annoying repetitive beeping that most woke up to, classical music was the sound that woke him from slumber. Stretching as he rose from the bed, he began his usual morning routine. First, he turned off the alarm clock and turned on the radio, tuning it to his favourite station. Following his morning symphony he chose what clothes he would wear, laying them out neatly on the already-made bed. Apparently Fish would be having an important guest at the club today, so he had to look his very best.

Luckily, he had an outfit he had been piecing together.

Today would be the trial run.

Next came breakfast. Others might have had breakfast _last_ , but in his opinion it was better to change the strings _before_ tuning the instrument, not after.

Breakfast was always a choice depending on his mood. With his usual cheerful morning thoughts in mind, he pulled the box of Pop Tarts from the shelf. Humming along to the song on the radio, he prepared his breakfast as he went through his personal to-do list. Get a paying job, check. Pay rent on his apartment, check. Use his invention to increase his income, oh yeah. No longer able to contain the song in his throat, his humming became full singing, free to do so since he wasn’t wearing his invention. He smirked as he took his first bite into his breakfast. That was the most fortunate thing. Even after robbing several banks, he was still able to sing for a crowd. Nothing could stop him from following his dreams of music and melody.

After all, his greatest loves were music…and money.

With breakfast finished, he went on with his routine and took a shower. The song on the radio was momentarily drowned out by his booming, powerful rendition of something from _Les Miserables_ , then (in his opinion) an improved version of Adele’s ‘Hello’. By the end of that the water had run cold, and he quickly dried himself off and collected his clothes. When he had on the lower half of his clothing (boxers and the black pants of a suit) he walked back into the bathroom. The next stanza of his routine was a daily occurrence that never changed, no matter what his mood. He looked directly into the mirror, locking eyes with himself (the sky blue colour of which sparkled as usual), and he began his mantra, his hymn to himself.

“Michel Forte is the greatest composer the world has ever known…”

He pulled on his white dress shirt, fastening each button up to his collar.

“Women love him, men want to _be_ him…”

He brought up his tie, a shade of striking green, and pulled it around his neck.

“Everyone _fawns_ at the sound of his voice…”

He knotted his tie securely, making sure it looked neat and presentable.

“He carries a tune like no one else…”

When he was happy with his tie he moved on to his hair, slicking back every strand and fixing it to perfection.

“He is the maestro of song, and the best at what he does…”

No detail was unnoticed, nothing left short of perfect. When he was finally happy with his hair, he moved on to the last part of his attire. It had been an odd find, but the moment he saw it he knew he had to have it.

A dark purple jacket.

Pulling it on in one smooth motion, he fastened all of the buttons and tucked his tie in underneath. His attire complete, he looked once more into the mirror, pointing at the handsome devil looking back at him.

“Michel Forte sings the song that the world wants to hear.”

With that he turned, left the bathroom, and turned off the radio before swiftly leaving his apartment.


	7. Flight Of The Bumblebee

Being called into a police station was never a good thing.

Especially when you had robbed enough banks to buy part of an island.

His heart was pounding in his chest at a tempo to rival _Flight Of The Bumblebee_ as he walked into the station, trying not to appear nervous as he looked around.

So far, he wasn’t doing a very good job.

Fragments of the phone call still hummed in his mind, like a duet between a violin and a cello.

_“Hello?”_

_“Is this Michel Forte?”_

_“Yes. What can I do for you?”_

_“We need you to come into the GCPD. We have some questions for you.”_

Obviously he had panicked. Why else would he be called in but to be interrogated because they had found evidence identifying _him_ as the culprit? What a lie he had told, telling Fish that his mother had been in a terrible accident. Still, his panicked demeanour _had_ been useful for that, since Fish had let him go because she ‘had never seen him so distressed’.

No duh.

He of course had never been inside the GCPD before, but he had never realised just how busy it was inside. Much like _Flight Of The Bumblebee_ , it was a hive of busy buzzing and the flittering of different instruments. Prior to the visit, he had always seen the titular insect as hurrying desperately to get to its destination, perhaps trying to escape from something.

Now all he’d see was the scene before him of the GCPD.

He realised that because he had never been inside the building before, he had no idea where he was supposed to go. To put it simply, he was lost.

It wasn’t like he was going to ask someone and explain his current situation. For all he knew the moment his name was announced he would be arrested and handcuffed before the spotlight could even be lit.

Humming Hungarian Dance No. 5 in G Minor under his breath to calm his nerves, he stepped further into the building, moving towards the stairs leading up to a raised level that wasn’t entirely separate from the rest of the room.

Maybe if he left before anyone knew he was there-

“What do you have when you throw a piano down a mine?”

He jumped, realising there was a person standing next to him. The person, a man, wore glasses and was kind of thinly built.

“Excuse me?” He questioned, and the man gave a smile.

“What do you have when you throw a piano down a mine?” The man in glasses repeated, slightly slower. He smirked.

“A flat minor.” He thought he was the only one who knew the answer to that, but apparently he was wrong. The man in glasses (who now reminded him of a transverse flute) grinned, appearing to be delighted that he had answered correctly.

“Edward Nygma.” The man in glasses shifted the clipboard he was carrying to hold out a hand, and he raised an eyebrow before shaking it.

“Michel Forte.” He looked Edward Nygma up and down, then took back his hand. Edward’s expression changed to one of realisation, then one of excitement.

“You’re Michel Forte?”

“…Yes.” He replied hesitantly. He waited for the handcuffs.

“Oh my…well…” Edward seemed to stammer as he tried to pull something from his clipboard, practically tearing off the piece of paper in his haste. He raised an eyebrow again, but then Edward held up the piece of paper and his eyes widened slightly.

“My flyer.”

“I was interested in your proposal, and so I thought…” Edward seemed to be becoming quite flustered, “If you’re still offering, of course, that I-“

“Mr Nygma.” He stopped him kindly, holding up a hand, “While I appreciate your interest, I’m afraid I have finished my tests.” Edward’s face fell, and he felt momentarily sympathetic for the man in glasses.

“Oh…” Edward replied, then added quietly with clipboard in both hands, “May I ask what the trials were for?” He gave a devilish smirk.

“Something revolutionary.” He replied, then chuckled, “Something that will make me a very rich musician indeed.”

“Musician?” Edward questioned, then a ghost of a smile appeared in his features, “Well, then did you know that houseflies hum in the key of F?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking at Nygma.

“Really?” He questioned, taking a step towards Edward, “Would that be F sharp or F flat?” Edward grinned and looked like he was about to reply when his head suddenly turned, not unlike a dog that had just heard its master’s car pull up in the driveway. He frowned and followed Edward’s gaze to see a tall woman with glasses and dressed very formally walk towards them, carrying some papers.

“Miss Kringle.” Edward greeted, and the woman lifted her head.

“Hello Edward.” She replied shortly, walking past him. He raised an eyebrow as he watched the interaction between the two, followed by Miss Kringle placing the papers on the desk next to him and Edward then quickly leaving. Edward watched her leave, then gave a sigh.

“I saw that.” He smirked, and Edward turned his head back to him and blinked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do.” He folded his arms, still smiling, “You like Miss Kringle, correct?” Edward looked at the ground sheepishly, providing him with the only answer he needed.

“Look, Edward.” He began, “I can call you that, can’t I?” He didn’t even give time for Edward to respond. He was in the same sort of state as when he was on stage.

“Edward, there is one thing you _must_ do to gain a woman’s affections.” He moved closer to get the message through, “Charm her.” Edward looked at him sceptically, and his smile grew as he stepped behind him.

“You need confidence.” He grabbed Edward’s shoulders and waved an arm out, “Sweep her off her feet and show her something she’ll never forget.”

“And that works? For you?” Edward questioned, and he nodded.

“I’ve charmed many hearts, Mr Riddle.” He replied, then smiled to himself, “Though there hasn’t been one that’s managed to charm mine.” That didn’t seem like the good thing to say, since Edward seemed to take it the wrong way. He flashed a bedazzling smile, and involuntarily struck a pose.

“Believe me, Nygma, when I find the voice to match my own, I’ll know.” He told Edward, then pointed a finger at him, “Remember, the most important thing is confidence and charm. Steal the spotlight.”

“Confidence and charm.” Edward echoed, as if to permanently imprint it in his mind. He grinned and patted Edward on the shoulder before a voice suddenly cut through his inspirational ballad.

“Ed?”

He and Edward both turned to see none other than Detective Jim Gordon.

“Detective Gordon.” His grin instantly evaporated like The Phantom’s hopes of winning Christine, and he saw Edward return to his quiet state.

“Michel.” Jim replied. Jim glanced at Edward before looking back to him.

“If you’d like to follow me, Mr Forte.” Jim gestured and began walking. He glanced at Edward, who now had a small frown on his face.

“Remember what I said.” He said quietly.

“F natural.” Edward replied, eyes downcast. He gave a small smirk before following after Jim Gordon.


	8. Once More, With Feeling

He hated silence. So much. The absence of sound was just so _nerve-racking_ , grating against him like sandpaper.

The fact that he was sitting in an interrogation room _alone_ wasn’t helping his nerves either.

Foot tapping anxiously against the floor, he looked around the room before deciding to break the silence. He began to hum, steadily increasing in volume. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was something from _Buffy_.

He slowly became less nervous, and he drummed his fingers on the table in time with the music.

He could only imagine what was going to happen now. Were the police raiding his apartment right now, looking for his invention? Were they finding the sacks of money he had hidden and issuing a warrant for his arrest?

The door suddenly opened and he cut off his melody sharply, head whipping around to see who had entered.

“Detectives.” He greeted, foot once again tapping under the table. So much for being calm. Jim took a seat across from him at the table, that flat expression on his face, and his partner took a seat beside him. Bullock did not look enthusiastic, to say the least.

“Hello again, Michel.” Jim greeted flatly, and he tapped his fingers on the table. The silence had been broken, but panic was still trying to grip at his insides.

“Hello, Detective Gordon.” He turned his attention to Harvey, “Hello Detective Bullock.”

“Hey.” Harvey replied flatly. He found that it was easier to talk to someone who didn’t really care. But he had never been in an interrogation before, so he would have to put on his best performance yet to make these two police officers believe that he hadn’t broken any laws whatsoever.

“I noticed you were talking to Nygma out there.” Jim began, “You two have a good chat?” What was this, monotone cop and uninterested cop?

He nodded, still feeling his foot and fingers tap out a frenzied rhythm. To him they almost seemed to echo through the room, reverberating from the walls like notes played on a synthesiser.

“I helped him with some…girl trouble.” He smirked to himself, chuckling quietly.

“Then _this_ …” Jim put something on the table and pushed it towards him, “…should be familiar.”

He could _swear_ the beat of his heart skipped several measures as he stared down at the piece of paper on the table.

“My advertisement…”

Oh no, oh no no no no no.

Did he look pale? He felt pale.

“Yeah, so what was this ‘big breakthrough’ of yours, huh?” Harvey rose from his seat, leaning on the table as he looked at him. He stared for a moment, but then he shrugged as he leant back in his seat.

“Finding a cure for those hard of hearing.” He lied, then smiled, “No one should have to live without the joy of music, detectives.” He saw Harvey roll his eyes as he stepped back, and he raised an eyebrow with a frown.

“Is that right?” Jim questioned, and he nodded.

Maybe he could actually get away with it…

“How come we haven’t heard about it in the papers, then?” Harvey asked, pointing a finger.

Dammit.

“I can’t afford for anyone else to steal my work, now can I?” He replied. He had to buy into his own lie, like an actor playing the next Phantom Of The Opera on-screen.

Harvey frowned in a way that showed he frustratingly believed him, and he had the urge to smile before noticing that Jim was looking at his hand, still tapping out a tune. He quickly put his hands in his lap.

“Nervous, Mr Forte?” Jim questioned, and he shrugged again.

“It’s not every day I’m called into the police station for an interrogation, Detective Gordon.” He was beginning to relax, panic shifting for a new number. His charm was weaving itself through his words, portraying a bridge of undeterred innocence and cool demeanour.

He had done nothing.

“Jim, come on let’s go.” Harvey tapped Gordon on the shoulder, but he shrugged him off.

“Where were you two days ago, around midday?”

“Come on Jim the guy doesn’t know anything.” Harvey was still standing, practically shouting so his partner would get the point. A ghost of a smile appeared on his face as he glanced between the two men.

“At home, preparing for work at Fish Mooney’s club.” It was _half_ a lie. The robbery had been at eleven forty-five, not twelve.

“Do you have anyone that can confirm that for you?” Jim pressured, but he shrugged innocently.

“I live alone.” This was starting to become easy. Almost _too_ easy.

“Jim!”

He smirked, leaning back, and Jim raised an eyebrow.

“Something funny, Mr Forte?”

“It’s like watching a tuba and a guitar.” He couldn’t help himself as he leant forward, elbows on the table with a grin and a laugh, “It should be such an unpleasant combination, and yet…you two somehow make it work.” The look from Harvey and Jim was almost the same, and his grin widened.

“Is that so?”

He nodded to Harvey, but _still_ Jim’s composition would not reach an end.

“You know a lot about music, don’t you Michel?”

It sounded like a trap. But how could you avoid a trap you weren’t even sure was set?

“I _am_ a musician.” He smirked. He could have stopped there, but he continued.

“My dream is for all of Gotham to hear my music.” He leant back in his seat thoughtfully, “One day, the world will be mine.”

“Yeah, whatever Tchaikovsky.” Harvey seemed to have given up on the interrogation, and to his hidden delight Jim sighed and rose from his seat.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Forte.” Jim gave a flat, abundantly forced smile before walking with Harvey towards the door. He stayed in his seat, pretending to be unsure of what to do, but when the door had closed behind the two detectives a grin grew on his face that could have split it in half. He jumped from his seat, air filling his lungs and flooding through his chest.

“ _All will bow down to my will, no one will ever end my thrill. Come morning time Gotham will be mine and no one will catch me for my crime!”_

He put a hand over his mouth in surprise. He didn’t usually burst out full-volume like that, especially not with random lyrics like _those_. As he slowly took his hand away, he grinned again.

It wasn’t exactly a bad thing.

After all, he couldn’t sing other people’s lyrics forever…


	9. Pa Pa L'Americano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used in this chapter is 'We No Speak Americano', but with the lyrics translated to English.

He ran around his apartment in a wild blur, quickly throwing things into a large bag like some sort of hoarder hurricane. The pampered and perfect look he had given himself that morning now lay dishevelled like the Sunday best of a drunkard, the once harmonious flow of notes now a discordant shamble of instruments _trying_ to find some sort of order in their out-of-tune state.

_“How can the one who loves you understand you?”_ He sang, panicked, using an arm to shove all of the papers on his desk into the bag, _“If you’re speaking half American…”_

Panic was not exactly what someone would _think_ someone in his position would do at this moment. They’d think that a ‘criminal’ composer that had just fooled the police would be happy and celebrating, not hurrying with a heartbeat tempo equivalent to that of a hummingbird.

_“When you’re making love under the moon,”_ The select few books he had on the human mind were torn from the shelf, _“How will you say ‘I love you’?”_

But he seemed to be becoming less and less like ‘other people’ every day.

He quickly ran into his bedroom, in his haste almost hitting his shoulder against the doorframe in the process.

Immediately after the interrogation, he had hurried back to ensure that he would not be a singing jailbird any time soon. Anything that could be used against him, to cut through his lies like scissors to sheet music, was haphazardly thrown into the bag.

_“We don’t speak American…”_ Quickly opening the door of his wardrobe, barely able to hold a note through his alarmed lack of breath, he got down on his knees as he opened the bag as wide as possible. Maybe it was the tension in his strings, but he could swear that there weren’t as many bags of money before now. Because it seemed like his increased fortune was now a lot _bigger_.

Ignoring the voice in his head that insisted he count every bill like Scrooge McDuck, he tore open the first sack.

_“We don’t speak American…”_ Handfuls upon handfuls upon _handfuls_ (dear lord) of money were stuffed into the bag at his side, without any sort of mental process at all.

The overture is over, Forte. And this is just an interlude.

Get the money, and get out.

_“You want to be American…”_ His tempo increased, desperation the result of the unfolding scene in his mind. The discord currently affecting his song and attire would be the chaos of police knocking down his door, charging in and pinning him to the floor, snapping the handcuffs around his wrists as he squirmed.

He tensed at the thought, momentarily pausing in his allegro.

Being physically pinned down or restrained was not something he was fond of, what with so many ‘delightful’ memories of being beaten up as a child.

A flat, emotionless chuckle growled in his throat. Well look at the ‘choir boy’ now, you tone-deaf imbeciles.

His grip tightened on the bills in his hand as he continued to fill the bag, eventually having to pack it in to make sure it fit. When there were no more sacks to empty, he pushed down on the hundreds of dollars and grunted with the slight strain that came with trying to close the bag. He sat back on his knees, trying to catch his breath and slow down his breathing altogether. When he was sure a heart attack wasn’t going to end his tune before the end of the day, his head slowly turned towards his bed.

Of course, he couldn’t forget the most important part…

Rising to his feet quickly, he got down beside the bed and reached underneath it. He pulled out what looked like a large, black briefcase, but he knew it to be much more…

Placing the case in front of him, he carefully opened the clasps and lifted the lid, hoping the precious contents hadn’t been damaged in his absence. A sigh of relief escaped him in succession to his chorus-wavering panic, smirking as he looked at his invention, the light gleaming faintly against the metal before he closed the case and rose to his feet.

_“Whiskey soda and rock and roll…”_ How his voice could sound so calm through the anxiety causing the muscle in his chest to ignore the message about those few stanzas it was skipping, he didn’t know. But he could only guess that the feel of the case handle in his hand was calming enough as he hefted up the other bag filled to the bursting point with research, books and hundred dollar bills.

_“Whiskey soda and rock and roll…”_ He crossed his bedroom and the rest of his apartment, eyes quickly scanning the rooms in case he had forgotten something. He came to the front door, and he took one last look around his apartment, where so many compositions had been planned, scrapped, and created.

He would take everything incriminating down to his lab, where it (and he) would be safe until the police were no longer looking for him.

_“Whiskey soda and rock and roll.”_ The door closed with a soft click behind him.


	10. New Evidence

“I told you Jim. I told you Forte wasn’t involved.”

Harvey, Jim and Edward were all once again seated (save for Nygma, who was standing) where they had been earlier when they had discovered their ‘breakthrough’ which had turned out to be a dead-end. Jim remained silent, thinking.

“It was better than nothing.”

“Yeah, _nothing_.” Harvey replied, leaning forward with a hand gesture, “That’s the key word here.” Jim frowned, and Edward opened his mouth, hesitated, and then spoke.

“Detective Gordon…” Edward asked, gaze focused on something that was neither of the two detectives, “Would you say that… _charming_ a woman is the best way to win her affections?” Before either of the two could reply, another cop hurried up to them, drawing their attention.

“Jim, you gotta see this. We managed to pull the security footage from one of the banks.”

Jim and Harvey looked at each other before quickly rising from their seats, Edward trailing after them.

In the captain’s office, Jim, Harvey and Captain Essen all looked at the box-like television, Nygma hovering by the door. The camera showed most of the bank, including showing the image of a familiar ginger-haired face as it looked around before darting out of the shot. The footage was rewinded, and then stopped where the face was still in view of the camera.

“Son of a bitch…” Harvey swore, still staring at the screen. Jim had a deep frown on his face, possibly thinking something along similar lines.

“The cameras turn off soon after he arrives.” Essen added, gesturing to the screen as she walked over to her desk, “He’s appeared at the other banks that were robbed as well.” Harvey shook his head, frowning.

“What was that you were saying, Harvey?” Jim asked flatly, and Harvey jabbed a finger in his direction.

“Hey don’t act like I wasn’t the only one fooled by his little innocence routine.” Harvey retorted, pointing at the face on the screen. No one even glanced at Nygma, who was still staring at the screen with a slightly shocked expression.

“How about we find him and _then_ point fingers.” Jim walked towards the door, with Edward quickly moving out of his way, “Nygma, see if you can find out where Forte’s hiding. He had to be working somewhere, a laboratory, a university, _somewhere_.” Edward stammered, seemingly at a loss for words.

“R-Right away detective…”

Jim passed him, and Harvey quickly followed.


	11. Arrest And Tragedy

_“Nygma, did you find something?”_

_“Yes.” Edward replied, holding up a piece of paper, “I couldn’t find any laboratories where our local musician is supposed to be working, but I double-checked and found that he’s recently started paying rent at a small music store called ‘Bars & Stanzas.”_

Nygma certainly hadn’t been lying. Jim and Harvey pulled up to the two-story building, the outside looking fairly well kept for a building in Gotham. Above the door, a neon sign blinked the words ‘Bars & Stanzas’ over a guitar made of similar lights.

“I have a question.” Harvey remarked as he and Jim climbed out of the car, “Forte said we were like a guitar and a tuba, right?” He pointed between them as Jim joined him on the sidewalk.

“Which one do you think is which?”

Jim looked at the building, seeing nothing that showed any sign of criminal activity.

“I’m the guitar.” Jim replied flatly and walked towards the door, and Harvey quickly followed.

“Wait a minute.” Harvey stepped in front of Jim, stopping him, “Are you saying that I’m a tuba?” Jim raised an eyebrow.

“Well you don’t exactly seem like the guitar type.” Jim side-stepped him, and Harvey pretended to be offended.

“Hey face it Jim, out of the two of us _you’re_ the one who’s flat.” Harvey followed Jim inside the store, where numerous instruments and assorted music equipment was on display. At the back, a man who looked like he’d been in a fight or two stood behind a counter. His hair was greying, and he had a beard that he scratched briefly as Jim and Harvey approached him.

“Detectives Gordon and Bullock.” Jim showed the man his badge, “We’re looking for a man named Michel Forte. He supposedly comes here often.”

“Jeremy Barnes.” The man shook Gordon’s hand before leaning with one elbow on the counter, “Yeah, Mike’s around a lot. Uses my basement as his own little secret lab. He pays rent, and he’s a decent guy, so I just let him be.”

“And ah, have you noticed anything strange about him?” Harvey questioned, stepping forward, “You know, anything _weird_?” Jeremy thought it over before slowly shaking his head.

“Not that I can think of. Although when he came in a few minutes ago he seemed really nervous about something…”

Harvey blinked, and Jim frowned.

“Wait, he’s here _now_? Like right now?” Harvey asked, and Jeremy nodded, causing an almost instant reaction from the two policemen.

“Can you show us where your basement is, Mr Barnes?” Jim asked quickly, and Jeremy nodded as he led them to a blocked-off corner of the store.

“Right here.” He gestured to the closed door, and Jim moved forward, testing the doorknob. It opened and Jim looked inside, gun drawn.

“You may wanna take a couple steps back, Barney.” Harvey advised, and he followed Jim down the stairs, closing the door behind him as he pulled out his own gun. The staircase wasn’t well lit, stretching on in near-darkness as the detectives descended slowly and carefully. As they neared the end, an almost non-existing light glowed faintly, and Jim and Harvey could both hear the almost inaudible sound of someone singing.

_“Somebody wake up my heart, set fire to my soul…yeah…”_

Jim and Harvey stopped just before they reached the bottom of the stairs, and they glanced at each other before walking into the room, guns still raised.

_“’Cause I can’t do it anymore…”_

“GCPD!” Jim exclaimed, Harvey standing beside him. Standing almost in the centre of the room next to a wooden table was Michel Forte, eyes wide as he blinked repeatedly, frozen to the spot.

“Detectives…”

“Your little show’s over Forte put your hands in the air!” Harvey ordered. Michel raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them before slowly turning towards the table.

“Hands in the air!”

“I should have known you would find me…” Michel remarked calmly, pulling what looked like a large black briefcase across the table towards him, “I was never one known for _subtlety_ …” Everyone in the room knew he was stalling.

“Step away from the table choir boy, you’re under arrest!”

Jim saw Michel tense, fists clenching tightly as his jaw did the same. Michel closed his eyes for a moment, but then opened them with a deep breath and smiled again, this time seeming more forced.

“You don’t even want to know how I did it?” Michel questioned, and Jim looked him up and down.

“How?” He asked after a moment, and Michel smirked as he turned back to the briefcase.

“The mind is such an _interesting_ thing.” Michel remarked, popping open the clasps of the case before glancing at the detectives, “Have you ever thought about that urge to tap your foot to a song? Where it comes from? _Why_ it’s so hard to resist?” All of Michel’s movements were slow and careful, far too calm for someone held at gunpoint as he opened the lid of the case.

“As a musician, I thought I could harness that kind of force, that _power_ that comes from every note and stanza…” Michel paused to chuckle and once again look at Jim and Harvey, “You would not _believe_ how long it took me to find a self-sustaining power source.”

“So how’d you rob all those banks?” Harvey asked, and Michel tapped his nose before pulling something out of the case. It looked like a large metal collar, embedded with different wires. Michel held it as carefully as if it were glass as he turned fully to the two detectives, gesturing to the collar.

“Fish Mooney told you how well I hit the high notes…” Michel continued, “This adds a certain… _tone_ , to my voice when it hits a certain pitch. Very tricky business.” Jim took a cautious half-step forward as Michel attached the collar to his neck, fastening it so it was practically seamless.

_CLICK._

_BZZZZ._

The collar momentarily buzzed with electricity, and Michel cleared his throat briefly.

“I barely have to _hum_ and everyone falls under my control.” Michel finished with a smirk.

“So you hypnotize all of the people in the bank, and then have them give you money.” Gordon concluded, and Michel’s smirk widened as he looked at him.

“Exactly.” Michel replied, “As soon as you find the right melody, no one can resist but to sing along.” Now the situation was starting to become a standoff. If Harvey or Jim went to shoot, Michel would hypnotize them and do who-knew-what.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself, Forte.” Jim remarked flatly, and Michel chuckled.

“Detective Gordon, I don’t see how I could lose…”

As if in reply, Harvey took a shot. Michel dived to avoid it, and it hit the machinery lining the wall behind him. Jim looked at Harvey as if to say ‘What the hell was that?’ and Harvey gave an exaggerated shrug. The machinery began to throw sparks, and as Michel jumped to his feet his eyes widened and he stared at the machinery.

“You _imbecile_!” Michel exclaimed, holding his hands to his head.

“Why, what is that?!” Harvey asked quickly as Michel fussed over the machine.

“The off button!” Michel shouted, turning back around to face Jim and Harvey, “Now I couldn’t turn off the collar even if I _wanted_ to! I’ll be lucky if I can take it off!” The machine seemed to be falling apart rather quickly, wires sparking with electricity as they detached themselves from their fastenings.

“Forte lo-“

“I’ll make you prance like a ballerina, Bullock!” Michel exclaimed, and he swung a punch aimed for Harvey. Gordon quickly stepped in front of Michel, grabbing him and throwing him back. Forte stumbled and fell backwards, hitting the wall of machinery. He let out a tangled scream as electricity coursed through his body, flashes of light illuminating the room. Jim and Harvey tried to help, but they couldn’t get anywhere near him without being shocked themselves. Michel crumpled to the ground lifelessly, and Jim knelt beside him before gesturing to Harvey.

“Get an ambulance down here, quick!”


	12. Epilogue (Jailhouse Rock)

He groaned, aware of an intense pain throbbing through his entire body. He slowly opened his eyes, and a dirty grey roof was all he could see. When he was sure it wouldn’t kill him, he sat up slowly, groaning once again. Taking in his surroundings, his eyes widened. A cell?! Oh no, oh _god_ no…

Rising quicker than he should have, Michel went to the bars, head leaning against them.

HE WAS IN PRISON!?

Oh god, this couldn’t be happening…

Stepping away from the bars, he tried to remember how he had skipped so many stanzas to wake up in a _jail cell_ …

He had been in his lab, and then the detectives had barged in and tried to arrest him, and…

His eyes widened almost disproportionally to the rest of his face as he hurried to the mirror above the sink, and his jaw dropped in horror.

“NO!” His voice was hoarse, something almost as horrifying as the image before him. Leaning forward, he ran his fingers desperately across the seams where the metal of the collar had joined with the flesh of his throat.

“No…oh god…” The muscle in his chest grew tighter than the skin of a drum before realization dawned, and he _stopped breathing_.

Gordon. Detective Gordon had shoved him into the broken machinery.

The electricity had _sealed the collar to his skin_.

The only word that came to mind was ‘hyperventilating’ to describe what he was doing as he backed away from the mirror, hands to his throat in pure _horror_.

His career, his true love was _gone_. Now every time he sang, anyone around him would fall into a trance. He was ruined! His LIFE was ruined!

He stumbled back onto the cot, gripping the sides until his knuckles turned white.

All he had ever wanted was to share his music with the world, and now that dream was _destroyed_ by…by…

His grip relaxed, if only slightly, as his expression froze, and then twisted with anger. He slowly rose from the cot, fists clenching at his sides.

Detective _Gordon_. _He_ was the one that had done this. He had taken Michel Forte, the maestro of song, and _trapped him_ with what he loved most in the world.

Detective Gordon had _ruined his life_.

Detective Gordon would PAY!

He went back to the mirror, staring at the angry creature that was glaring back at him with the muddled discourse of emotions like sheet music cut into confetti and stuck haphazardly to the page.

He would make them pay. Gordon, Bullock, _all of Gotham_ if he had to! He swore it!

MICHEL FORTE WOULD SETTLE THE SCORE!

He looked at the now permanent attachment to his throat, and then glanced over his shoulder at the bars of his cell. He couldn’t stay in prison…

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

_“Warden threw a party in the county jail…”_


End file.
